He Knew
by CelticFire32
Summary: She was a hobo. He knew her from a long time ago. They both knew that a shared glance was all they needed. They would never understand this world. One shot! Rated T.


**I realise that this is depressing, not my usual writing! **

**Anyways, the usual disclaimer applies...i do not own anything etc. This is a more mature story which includes hints of sexual assult, so you have been warned!**

**As you may have noticed, i do not mention a character. Its sort of fill in the blanks. I wrote it with one character in mind, you will probably be able to guess who!**

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As soon as she saw his shadow, she knew it was him.

She wasn't sure how, in the darkness of night and buzzing of streetlights, but she knew. It wasn't difficult to tell.

It left her with an odd, strangely empty feeling. It had been years. Years since she last saw him, and to her, all he was was a ghost of her past.

Yet watching him carefully walk down the alleyway made her shiver. With fear, delusion, anger, she didn't know. He was there. Right in front of her.

An icy rain was falling, making the narrow alleyway slick. He stumbled, once, twice and continued on his way. Home maybe. She wondered about what he had waiting for him. A wife? Kids? A warm, loving household? She was certain he didn't. He was complex. Like a deep, layered tomb, ancient secrets and betrays weaving themselves into a bigger and stronger mystery. She didn't know him; that was certain. She doubted that nobody knew him. He probably didn't even know himself.

She often wondered about life and the madness that tore people apart. It had torn him apart, it was easy to see. He looked haggard and jagged, like a broken mirror, shattered into a million sharp, unrepairable pieces.

He wasn't broken though. Something held him together, just barely to keep him attached, grounded to his world. Like a Band Aid on a battle wound. Nothing permanent, just hardly there, but yet, enough to stick him together. She wondered what it was.

He kept walking, probably assuming that she was some hobo, shielding herself from the sleet. She raised her head a few inches up and for an instant, they made eye contact.

He knew immediately it was her. She had always hated her eyes. Not green, not hazel, not brown. But distinctive. But she knew it wasn't just her eyes. He knew too. She wondered for how long.

They stared, fixated on each other. He opened his mouth, but she shook her head, almost unnoticeably. He nodded, understanding. He had already known the answer before he opened his mouth. He knew. She turned her head back down, picking through bottles and he continued forward, not looking back.

For many, a shared moment between a hobo and respected FBI agent may be forgotten as he followed on with his life while she lived on the streets. But to both, she knew it was monumental.

She was just seventeen, first year of university whenever she rounded the corner alone in that creepy dark hallway. The turn that would change her life. There were so many of them. Five. She was too weak against them. They forced her into a janitors closest and left her there. Sobbing. Broken, shattered into a million pieces.

It was just by chance that he found her. He was older then her, by a couple of years, walking down that hallway. He heard something. Found her.

His pair of eyes, shocked and pitying and caring mad her cry more. Because hse knew that shewould never be able to understand how someone could do what that group did to her, and this person could come in and hug her, and comfort her and tell her that it would be alright. Nothing made sense anymore, and for her, the neat lines she made, between good and evil faded into a murky, deep grey area. She would never be the same.

She gave up university after that, and arguably life. She hadn't spoken since she uttered those final words to him.

"I'm going to find the line," she told him and set out. He knew. Now where was she? Living in a dark alleyway, newspaper stuffed in her coats. The line still gray.

She supposed that he was also trying to find the line. She knew he wouldn't ever understand. Nobody would. What happened to her would never be understood.

She had never wanted to see those eyes again. They represented to her a concept she would never understand.

She died that night. No cause of death was ever found. The paramedics found one odd thing. A blanket had been put over her sometime that night and she died with a ghost of a smile on her face. They were baffled why somebody would care about a hobo.

She was buried under the name Jane Doe. Nobody mourned her, just a hobo. A nobody.

But strangely enough, the day she was buried, a single figure stood over her grave, placed a lone cheery blossom. It shriveled and died a few days later, swept up in the wind of a cold March day.

Nobody ever knew who she was. And in a way, she never really did either.

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Okay. Note to self. Do not chamge over from humour to tragady because you will get a steorotypical, cliche stoey. Jeez.

Thansk for reading. Ick. This is not mybest piece.


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